Letters from Afghanistan
by SoItGoes19
Summary: John re-enlists in the military to escape the horror of Sherlock's death, but soon begins to see Sherlock again in the one place he never thought he would. Eventual Sherlock/John.
1. Chapter 1

**I wanted to put my spin on the obligatory depressed John fic. Only in mine John is in Afghanistan. This plot choice had nothing to do with my fantasy of seeing Martin Freeman in army fatigues… Nope. Nothing at all : )**

**Also I have absolutely no military background, so if I get some terminology wrong, try not to get too angry with me. That being said I'm always open to constructive criticism! Enjoy!**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_I promised myself that after I dropped therapy, I would at least keep a diary. I thought it would help a bit to write everything out, so maybe I could make sense of things. Or at least monitor myself to make sure I wasn't going crazy. _

_ There was only one problem: I couldn't write a damn thing. _

_I stared at those blank pages for days unable to write a single word. It was a million times worse than when I was writing your blog. Back then you would laugh at me over my writer's block, when I was struggling to find the perfect phrase to describe the way that London looked when we'd run through it together in the night or the dreamy look in your eyes when you were dead to the world, trapped away in your own mind. _

"_It's about the facts, John!" you'd chide. "These pointless details are just sentiment." _

_And then I'd laugh and say that some people enjoyed the sentiment and go back to brooding over those pointless details all the same. _

_But now it's different. Now the words just don't make sense. Nothing really makes sense anymore._

_This is actually the first time I've been able to write anything at all._

_I think it's because I'm writing to you. _

_I can't help it. I used to tell you that your ego was so massive that you sucked everyone else's into your orbit. It's still true. Not just that you're self-centered (although you're definitely that, too), but that I can't think in terms of just myself anymore. You've forever changed my view of the world. You're a star, Sherlock, a bloody super nova. You pull people in, even as you're self-destructing, and then you don't let go. _

_ I miss you. I miss you so much that it hurts._

_Maybe this can be less like a diary and more like a letter. _

_I guess I should probably start it off like a proper letter then. _

_Dear Sherlock, _

_I ran away._

_After your…_

_After you…_

_Fuck, I still can barely even get myself to say it out loud, much less write it out on paper. After all of that happened, I couldn't stay in London. I saw you everywhere. I saw you hiding in every alleyway, spying from every rooftop, sitting in every coffee shop ducked behind the morning paper or a book. _

_I even literally saw you on the street a few times, or at least I thought I did. Once when I was having lunch with Harry I chased some tosser down for three blocks, screaming at him to come back; begging him to not leave me behind. And then he turned around. He didn't look anything like you at all, really. Same curls and height, but nothing else. I guess I just wanted it to be you. I had to mutter some apology about mistaking him for someone else while my sister stared at me like I was insane. _

_Maybe I am._

_Certainly no sane person would do what I've done. No sane person willingly trades one nightmare for another._

_London is your city, Sherlock, and I couldn't take it anymore without you in it. One day something in me just snapped, and I left. I ran away to the edge of the earth, to the one place where I knew that I would never see you again. _

_I re-enlisted._

_I'm back in Afghanistan. _

**Xxxxxxxxxxx**

"John, you coming to breakfast?"

John put down his journal and blinked in confusion.

"Breakfast?," his fellow soldier elaborated. "You know, the time when most people start their day with a bit of food? You've been here a week, and I've barely seen you eat at all!."

John glanced the man over. He was a young fellow, probably still in his teens. An American judging by the accent. If he was still this gung-ho, it was probably his first tour.

He attempted a sheepish smile. It felt gaudy, somehow reminding him of the fake gold jewelry he would seen worn by the women who worked the streets at night.

"I've been distracted, I guess," he lied. "You go on without me; I'll catch up."

The soldier grinned back at him. "Alright, see you in the mess hall," he said.

"See you…"

"Charlie," the youth provided.

"I'll see you later, Charlie," John said.

_Charlie, _he reminded himself once more. Despite sharing living quarters with about forty other men, he hadn't bothered to learn anyone's name yet. Actually, this could be the first real conversation he'd had that didn't consist of "yes sir" and "no sir."

"Maybe I should start putting forth more of an effort," he muttered to himself.

He jumped down from his bunk and threw on his fatigues. One of the reasons that he'd reenlisted in the six months after the funeral was that it provided his life with some sort of structure again. Protocol dictated how he spent his every waking moment, dividing his time equally between sleeping, drilling, and eating.

Once upon a time he might have regretted the intrusion on his personal freedom, but now he welcomed it. It allowed him to drift through his days. Untethered. Numb. He never had to worry about what he was doing or where he had to be next. He never had to think at all, really.

John stepped out into the desert morning, bracing himself against the warmth of the day. His time in London had made him forget how truly unforgiving the desert could be. The Afghanistan summer was nothing like a day at the beach: the heat here could into a man's bones, leaving him cooked from the inside out.

Even though it was barely light outside, the base was already bustling with activity. Groups of men jogging past him on their morning run; helicopters touching down in the landing hanger; commanders shouting out orders to the new recruits. On the surface the scene was chaos incarnate, but any military man could see that controlled down to the smallest detail.

He side-stepped around a unit of men returning from drills only to be intercepted by a tall man with an extremely red face and short cropped hair.

"Are you John Watson?" he asked. Out of habit John looked at his chest. It was obvious from the number of medals that the man was his superior.

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"There's been a air raid about 10 miles from here. One of the local schools partially collapsed, leaving some civilians trapped inside. Suit up. We leave in ten," he said gruffly, nodding toward one of the choppers.

"Yes sir," John replied once again.

As the man walked away John was overcome by a familiar fluttery sensation in his chest: The anticipation of danger. Sharp pricks of adrenaline trickled down his back and settled at the base of his spine.

For the longest time he had forced himself to remain numb. Feelings lead to memories, and the memories led to questions. Questions led to pain. But now it was like a damn had opened up inside of him, and everything was flooding back in.

John closed his eyes and forced himself to breath deeply. This was the state of mind that he associated with Sherlock the most of all, this ache for the chase. John could almost see him now: the hunger reflected in his grey eyes after he had worked everything out and the only thing left was to bring in the perp. That look was predatory, cruel even.

God, he loved it.

Suddenly a chill fell over him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end, and even in the middle of the desert he felt himself shiver. John knew this feeling quite intimately. He had experienced it many times in the flat when Sherlock was "studying" him: it was the feeling of being watched.

Not even daring to breathe, John turned around.

"Sherlock?

**Xxxxxxxxxx**

**PPPPPPPPPPPPP**

When Mycroft Holmes was awoken at 3:30 in the morning with word of an important visitor in his sitting room, he had about a dozen possible identities in mind. By the time he descended the stairs in his dressing gown, he had narrowed it down to two different secretaries of state, the cultural attaché to Greece, the head of the M-16, and a certain female dominatrix.

When he saw that it was only his brother, he was a little disappointed.

"I thought that you would know better than to come back here," Mycroft reprimanded.

Sherlock grabbed a pillow and leaned back into the sofa "It's safe," he argued. "People that live boring lives expect boring things. They only see what they wish to see."

_Too true_, Mycroft thought before wrinkling his nose in distaste. Sherlock had neglected to take off his raincoat and was dripping water all over the fine velvet. 

"What is your business then, brother?"

His brother's eyes narrowed. "You know why I'm here, Mycroft."

"I'm afraid I have know idea what you mean," Mycroft verbally backtracked.

He did know, of course, but it was always fun to watch his brother throw one of his tantrums.

"Well it's sure as hell not to bring a message from mummy, if that's what you're thinking," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft smirked. "It was a lovely visit. We should really spend more quality time as a family, you know."

Sherlock was the first to break (as he always was). He sprung from the couch with cat-like grace and rounded on Mycroft, reminding him of a panther stalking its prey.

"I have no time for your games, Mycroft, not tonight," Sherlock snarled. "I have a question and I need it to be answered truthfully: why did you sign those papers?"

"I'm assuming that mean the papers that allowed John to re-enlist."

"Have I ever given a damn about any of your treaties before? I know that you signed them," Sherlock said, circling around him. While another man would have been intimidated, Mycroft was unfazed, and more than content to stand perfectly still. He was used to his brother's penchant for the dramatic by now.

"John was medically discharged from his previous tour for a psychonumatic limp, not to mention that he just witnessed his flat-mate commit suicide by jumping from a ten-story building. There's no way that he would have passed a psychiatric evaluation. Not without the signature of someone important."

Mycroft was puzzled. No one could be that dense; not even Sherlock.

"A _flat-mate_? Do you really think that's all you are to him?"

Sherlock ignored his perfectly reasonable question and grabbed the collar of his dressing gown. "Do you think that I care about titles? Mycroft, he's going to get himself killed!"

And now he was _touching_ him? Sherlock had never been one for brute intimidation, or even physical contact at all unless it was absolutely necessary, instead preferring to fling insults and accusations from afar in a battle of wits. It was completely out of character.

He had never seen his brother so unhinged before.

Mycroft sighed. "If I hadn't signed them, then he would have."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"Mrs. Hudson was keeping an eye on him for me. She called me one day and said he had been acting odd lately. Moving out of the flat, losing weight, not returning any calls. She was worried. I searched his apartment myself and found a revolver in the drawer of his nightstand, cocked and loaded with only one bullet. We both know that a man who sleeps with that at bedside only has one thing on his mind."

"No. No that's not possible," Sherlock murmured, reeling backwards as if Mycroft had hit him. "John was different. It wasn't just me – there were others – I wasn't the only one who mattered. How could I have affected him so deeply that would make him want to…"

He stared Sherlock, standing there in his raincoat, grappling with the one thing he could never truly understand. He looked so lost. It was one of the few times he had ever pitied his brother.

"I have to go," Sherlock said abruptly. He moved towards the door.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called, trying to disguise the care in his voice, "Try not to do anything stupid."

Sherlock stopped mid-slam and scoffed. "Try not to eat too much cake."

Mycroft stood alone in his foyer and laughed until he cried. Why had he ever felt sorry for such an insufferable brat?

Xxxxxxxx

John gasped. It hurt to breath, like someone had punched hard him in the gut.

_You're dead. _

_You'redeadYou'redeadYoudiedYou'redead._

_I saw you die. _

_I saw you fall._

_I'm going insane._

He fought hard to draw breath. "Sherlock?" he finally choked out.

There was no doubt that it could be anyone else. It was all there: the angled contours of his face, that white ivory skin, long graceful limbs.

And those eyes. Even in his memories he could never quite get them right. But now, when Sherlock was standing right in front of him… god, he could get lost in eyes like that. There were entire worlds behind them; lifetimes of knowledge and memories. They were beautiful and complex and alien. They were his.

"You're not real," he murmured. He slowly brought his hand up to touch his friend's face.

"Watson!"

John spun around to see a group of men, including his commanding officer entering one of the helicopters.

"We're speeding up the plan," the red-face man called, screaming to be heard above the roar of the blades. "Get in the chopper, NOW!"

"Yes, sir!" John replied.

When he turned around, Sherlock was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**To anyone who's been following the story already, you'll notice that the letters portion of this chapter is the same one as the original Chapter 2. This is because I've merged what were originally Chapters 1 and 2 into a much larger chapter one in order to compensate for the fact that this Chapter will be so much longer. **

**I know this sounds super confusing, and I'm so so so sorry! I know an author should have the story planned out, but I'm still getting used to the whole multi-chaptered fic thing. I'm going to try to write longer chapters from now on, and hopefully you guys enjoy them!**

**TLDR: Other than the letter portion this chapter is entirely new content!**

_Attempted Letters by Sherlock Holmes (From Various Locations) _

_Dear John,_

_It's not that I didn't trust you. I regularly trust you with my life on cases, which would be extremely reckless if I didn't have such high regard for your personal judgment,.._

_Dear John,_

_If Moran had even guessed that you knew that I was alive, everything that happened would have been for naught…_

_Dear John,_

_You must understand that it was absolutely necessary…._

_Dear John,_

_I wish I could have told you…._

_Dear John,_

_I'm sorry. _

_Sincerely,_

Sherlock Holmes

xxxxxxxx

To John, the twenty minute ride to town took no more than the blink of an eye.

_Sherlock. I just saw Sherlock again._

Should he tell his superiors? Hand in his uniform and resign? He should at least feel a little worried. When people saw their dead best mates walking around alive and well, it was usually a pretty clear sign that there was something wrong.

But instead he felt…fine. Better than fine, really. His body felt stronger, as if he were tapping into some hidden reserve he hadn't even known existed. His vision was sharper, allowing him to see the desert in much clearer detail than he ever had before. His heart beat faster in his chest, making him excited and dizzy and restless all at once.

Altogether John felt better than he had in ages.

His stomach churned suddenly as the helicopter began its descent, forcing him to grab onto the side of the vehicle and close his eyes until they landed (thirteen years, and his body had never adjusted to chopper flights). He took advantage of the moment to mentally prepare.

_You have a job to do, John, _he reminded himself. _No more thinking about Sherlock until it's done. _

The vision that greeted him when he opened his eyes was even worse than he had expected.

There was fire everywhere. John could spot flames on the roof of nearly every building, and those that weren't currently alight released thick plumes of black smoke. Women and children cried openly in the streets, screaming the names of lost loved ones. The air reeked of bodies and exhaust fumes.

His fists clenched involuntarily. John understood the nature of war well enough, but what was the point of fighting for freedom if all they did was cause more pain?

Swallowing down his anger, John followed his fellow soldiers to an outcroppinig a distance away from the school where the survivors of the bombing lay huddled.

"What have we got?" his superior (whose name was apparently Julius) asked one of the men on the scene.

"Building's gonna fall any second, sir," the man answered. "It's too dangerous to go in there."

John couldn't help but agree – frankly, he was surprised the school was still standing at all. Both sides of the building had collapsed inward, leaving a teepee shaped structure supported by only a few narrow beams. The air smelled of a gas leak, leading him to guess that the building was seconds away from igniting as well.

As both a soldier and a doctor he was torn: his instincts told him to help the people trapped inside, no matter the cost, but his gut told him such a heroic attempt would only put his own men at risk.

"You have time, John," a voice said in his ear.

John turned to see Sherlock standing behind him. He was surprised to note that his imagination had actually dressed him according to the occasion. Instead of his usual peacoat and scarf ensemble, Sherlock wore loose-fitting grey trousers and a simply embroidered blue tunic that made his eyes stand out against his pale skin. The clothing choices only made the situation more unsettling – it added to the realism of the illusion.

John turned around and pointedly ignored him.

"You're not here," he muttered to himself. "You're not here. You're not here. And the second I turn around, you'll be gone again."

He turned.

"Are you even listening to me? There are lives at stake!"

John couldn't help but smile. His imaginary Sherlock was turning out to be just as obnoxious as the real version had been.

_Well at least no one can say I put him on a pedestal – hopefully they put that on my tombstone after I die alone in the psych ward._

"Fine, take a piss on your Hippocratic oath," Sherlock whined, crossing his arms. "It's not like I care."

John sighed. He had never been good at ignoring him before either.

"You heard him," he said, speaking from the corner of his mouth in hopes that no one would notice him talking to thin air. "The building's going to collapse. There's nothing I can do."

"Judging from the external loads placed on the building's frame you have at least ten minutes before the roof gives way."

It was more than enough time to evacuate some of the survivors. Provided the building didn't explode before they could get out.

"What if the gas line catches?" John challenged.

"Let's just hope that it doesn't," Sherlock replied darkly.

John considered for a moment. "Fine," he acquiesced. Sherlock smirked in approval.

"I'll talk to my commanding officer."

His smirk stopped dead in its tracks.

"John, time is of the essence in this situation," Sherlock argued, "You need to just go, now!"

John shook his head. "I can't "just go." I can't do anything without orders; I'll get discharged," he said bitterly, his voice rising against his will. "You're lucky I'm listening to you at all, because in case I haven't said it enough: YOU'RE NOT EVEN HERE!"

"Who _bloody_ cares if I'm here?" Sherlock growled back at him. "I'm right!"

"Yeah, you're right," John admitted. "A right git! Even when I make you up, you're still an annoying, insufferable, know-it-all!"

"It doesn't matter if I'm a right git or the Queen of England! All that matters is being correct. All that matters – "

"Is the work!" Sherlock and John both finished in unison.

Both men took a step back, panting hard. John felt his heart hammering in his chest and couldn't remember the last time he'd been this angry.

It was so perfect that it ached.

"God, I've missed you, Sherlock," he said in a quiet voice. "So much that it hurts. Nothing… nothing feels right without you."

Sherlock blinked but said nothing in return. With a rush of embarrassment John realized it was because his subconscious didn't know how Sherlock would react to such an admission.

_Well that settles it, _John thought bitterly.

He was a fool for hoping in the first place.

He turned away from Sherlock without another word and starting jogging toward his superior.

"John, where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

John had to give his mind some credit. Sherlock sounded almost…heartbroken.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

"Sir," John called to Julius as he jogged up beside him. "That building isn't going to collapse for at least ten more minutes! We have time to send a team in, and –"

"And I thought you were a doctor, not an architect," Julius interrupted him.

"But, there could be survivors," John said slowly, unwilling to believe the man would so casually brush him aside when there were lives at stake.

Julius sighed. "Look, Watson. I admire your enthusiasm; I really do. But I can't have any more deaths on my squad right now. Especially for the sake of a few civs."

"Bastard," Sherlock sneered from over Julius shoulder.

"My thoughts exactly," John muttered.

"What did you just say to me?" Julius asked testily.

John looked Julius in the eye and gave him a shit-eating grin.

"I said my thought exactly, sir."

Sherlock began to laugh. It began as a low rumble, a cat's contented purr, and bubbled over until the air was filled with his rich baritone. John watched him throw his head back in delight, looking for all the world like a giddy school boy.

Their eyes caught, and in that instant John knew he was undone.

He sank to his knees and laughed until he couldn't breathe.

Xxxxxx

By the time he'd stopped, John was unaware of how much time had passed. He placed a hand on his now-aching stomach and looked up to see Sherlock watching him worriedly. John couldn't blame him - had had just gone certifiably mad in the past half hour.

"Are you going to listen to me now?" he asked hesitantly.

"Possibly," John replied. "It's not like I have much choice."

"There's not much time left, John, but I can guide you through." He held out his hand. "Do you trust me?"

John was almost ashamed of how easily the answer came to him. He was being asked to willingly put faith in someone he knew was just a figment of his own imagination. To trust in a someone who had lied to him. Who had belittled him. Who had left him behind.

His answer was still the same, even after all this time.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes. _

"Yes," John said. His answer would always be yes.

Sherlock smiled dangerously.

"Then we run."

John placed his hand in Sherlock's and quickly walked past the other soldiers at the outcropping. The chatter faded into uneasy silence, and even the commander couldn't help but notice that something was different.

"Watson," Julius growled, "Where do you think you're going?"

John payed him no mind. His steps grew faster as he moved toward the schoolyard.

"Run, John!" Sherlock urged into his ear. "Run!"

His legs began to move of their own accord. They pounded into the ground again and again as he built up speed, moving faster until John could swear he was flying. He turned to see Sherlock matching him stride for stride, and for a brief moment of delirium the only thought in his head was _I am alive. _

John broke into a dead sprint for the last fifty yards. His lungs ached, but the sound of Sherlock breathing heavily beside him was enough to drive him forward. In the back of his mind John could hear the men's whoops of glee, as well as Julius's shouting that he was disobeying a direct order.

He would probably be discharged for this.

He felt too giddy to care.

For now he was running with his friend. And nothing else mattered.

**Bonus dialogue for all the Archer fans out there :P**

**xxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Sherlock: John!**

**John: What? **

**Sherlock: JOHN!**

**John: What? **

**Sherlock: JOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHNNNN!**

**John: WHAT?**

**Sherlock: Danger Zone!**

**John: *facepalm***

**Lolz for some reason I could totally see Sherlock doing that right before him and John run through the field. **


End file.
